


To Be Whetted

by ezlebe



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anniversary Gifts, Body Modification - Teeth, Canon Divergence - Post Episode 5x11, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, non-consensual marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22886959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlebe/pseuds/ezlebe
Summary: “I know what you’re doing,” Oswald says, making sure to offer his smile with a few teeth.“Do you?” Jim asks flatly, his eyes darting downward with the sparest frown.“And I am quite happy to tell you the reason I cannot becompelledto implicate myself and Ed in this manner, as you so desire, is a matter of public record,” Oswald says, making a show of looking at the state of his nails – he’s not quite up to his usual presentation and doesn’t know how he lost his gloves, but two months in Blackgate will do that to a man.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 9
Kudos: 126





	1. Chapter 1

Jim settles into the chair with a heavy sigh, dropping a crisp folder onto the table. “Does he know about the teeth, yet?”

“He would if he’d been the one to pick me up, Commissioner,” Oswald says, glancing around the interrogation room with an affected look of interest toward the little frosted window at the top of the wall. “Aren’t robbery arrests a little pedestrian for you?”

“Not when it’s you two,” Jim says, the words accusing but his tone almost bored.

Oswald narrows his eyes, irked, “How long have you had him?”

Jim offers a bland smile. “A few hours.”

“Oh, so you arrested him at precisely the same time I was released?” Oswald asks, pressing a hand flat to his chest while feigning surprise. “How terribly _convenient_.”

“I know it was him; I know you two correspond.” Jim reaches up and scratches behind an ear while staring Oswald down flatly with the most irritating of his knowing looks. “And I know he must have told you about it. If you don’t do this for me, I’ll just take you right back where you came from.”

“Jim,” Oswald says, dropping his hand and folding it against the other over the table while glancing briefly at the folder. “I can see you’re not even upset about this antique Ed supposedly took – ”

“A decanter set made from vaseline glass that was commissioned by the Gotham mayor in…” Jim opens the folder with a demonstrative flick of his fingers and a nod. “1911. I have a picture right here – ” he turns the folder and shows the decanter set in all its offensively green glory. “Which I think speaks for itself.”

“So I know what you’re doing,” Oswald finishes, making sure to offer his own smile with a few teeth.

“Do you?” Jim asks flatly, his eyes darting downward with the sparest frown.

“And I am quite happy to tell you the reason I cannot be _compelled_ to implicate myself and Ed in this manner, as you so desire, is a matter of public record,” Oswald says, making a show of looking at the state of his nails – he’s not quite up to his usual presentation and doesn’t know how he lost his gloves, but two months in Blackgate will do that to a man.

Jim raises a skeptical brow. “I’m a little offended I didn’t get an invitation, Oswald.”

“I’ll be sure to rectify that at our anniversary party, in about…” Oswald feigns a look at his watch, its face devoid of a calendar feature. “A week and three days.”

Jim looks startled for a beat, mouth opening and then closing, before he tips his head down at the folder in his hand, closing it with an exhale while shoving up from the table; his surprise is predictable, as this time last year is when they all stood against Bane, and Jim was suffering his own nuptials without having invited _Oswald._ “I apparently have some records to pull.”

Oswald rolls his eyes hard, leaning into the table while shifting his chin onto a palm, only to blink when the door is conspicuously held open for him to follow. He stands quickly before Jim can change his mind, following out to the main bullpen with a peek toward the cells to see Ed still sullen in the middle – a shimmery spot of green in the otherwise dank chasm. He regrets his extended distraction when Jim abruptly gets the idea to grab his arm, manhandling and pushing _him_ toward the cells.

“I hardly think this is necessary,” Oswald protests, scowling while he’s shoved into the cage, though it doesn’t take a genius to realize Jim is doing him a twisted sort of favor letting him close to Ed. He still glares at Jim’s back for a pair of seconds before turning to the green figure on the other bench, drawing his eyes up and down a sequined lapel. “What are you wearing? You look like a ringmaster.”

Ed looks up with a start, his expression brightening until he’s practically beaming with excitement. He proceeds to stand and demonstrably sweep a hand up one lapel; the emerald sequins flip on their seams to reveal a sparkling purple underneath. “Ta _da_.”

“Oh,” Oswald says, grinning back and reaching out to swipe at the other side.

Ed stumbles back from the hand in dramatic fashion, clutching his heart while gasping like Oswald has just tried to stab him. “Your teeth!”

“And there it is,” Bullock says, a bit too loud while he passes the cell door and his timing absolutely suspect.

Ed abruptly shoves in close, expression twisting while his voice drops to a low snarl. “Who did this to you?”

“I did,” Oswald snaps, pushing at Ed with both hands. “ _Off_.”

Ed barely moves bodily, but his eyes sweep side to side while he visibly resolves that words with whatever is going on in his head. “What – why?”

“Why not?” Oswald counters, tipping his head back against the bars to better showcase the teeth, all the while trying very hard not to think about how warm Ed is against him in the perpetually cold bullpen.

Ed continues to stare down at his mouth, eyes narrowing while he takes a deep breath. “ _Why_?”

“I wanted to,” Oswald says snidely, closing his lips with an eyeroll.

“But you – ” Ed huffs angrily though his nose. “You didn’t mention this at all!”

Oswald leans up close enough to almost seal the space between them. “I wanted it to be a _surprise_.”

Ed scowls petulantly, shoving away from Oswald while running a hand through his hair. He glances over Oswald’s head to the bullpen, mouth pressing into pale line, then suddenly his eyes dart sideways and his scowl deepens into something far more genuine.

“Alright, so this is fraud? And not a reason I can’t compel you to testify.”

Oswald rolls his eyes while he turns against the cage to peer at Jim. “How exactly is it fraud?”

“This is dated just before _he_ went to Arkham,” Jim curls a paper, presumably their license, around his fingers and waves it at Ed. “Clearly when he thought we started looking for,” he turns the paper to Oswald, “You.”

“Dubious circumstances, yes,” Oswald says, refusing to acknowledge how conspicuously and worryingly still that Ed has gone behind him. “But how are they fraudulent?”

Jim visibly stifles a sigh, looking down while slipping the paper into yet another file folder. “Aside for the fact neither of you were of sound mind? I’m fairly sure you two weren’t talking at the time.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow. “Based on?”

Jim raises his own brows and takes a breath, only to then pause while his gaze slides to Ed.

Oswald offers a conciliatory tip of his head, repressing a smirk; it’s not often he can so easily convince Jim of an outright lie.

Jim shakes his head slowly, eyes dropping while he stares for seconds at the floor with thought betrayed by the twitches of his eyebrows. “How was this not on the front page during the election?”

“Bribes,” Ed answers flatly, forgetting to mention that he had quite probably done that to hide it more from Oswald than anything, but admitting to that probably wouldn’t help their case.

Oswald himself hadn’t actually _known_ he was married until nearly two years after it happened, when the underworld’s most creative real estate broker had made a joke about his husband being the centerpiece of his club while he was in the middle of signing papers for it. He had made a fool of himself demanding her to explain, only to then find out she also ran a slightly more legitimate hustle in private investigations, specializing in background checks and documents forgery, which enabled her nosy self to discover his oh-so-secret marriage. She had meekly called it tragic, as well, after he hadn’t managed to laugh at her joke, and he certainly couldn’t disagree.

The discovery of his nuptials had given him a brand-new reason to loathe Ed – to further feed a desperate hope that his feelings would darken to become pure hate. It wasn’t until it hadn’t been enough that he realized maybe nothing ever would be, which has so far proven all-too true.

Jim settles Ed with that dubious frown. “What about Lee?”

“Brain damage,” Ed counters dismissively, if a little too quickly.

“Okay,” Jim says, pausing a long beat, then shaking his head with a mild, disingenuous huff. “How about when you killed him?”

Ed goes quiet at that, silence drawing out for seconds, and when he finally speaks his voice emerges markedly tight. “Clearly, I didn’t.”

“You thought you did,” Jim says, an untimely note of smugness swelling in his voice – he must think he’s found a crack in their story. “Lucius and Harvey both said you cried.”

Oswald blinks rapidly, glancing incredulously over his shoulder.

Ed looks truly blindsided, simultaneously sinking into himself and snarling through clenched teeth. “I don’t cry.”

“Uh huh,” Jim says, looking down at the folder with an exaggerated slant to his mouth. “I guess one more and that officially makes a pattern.”

Oswald is more startled than he should be when Ed pushes past to slam into the bars of the cell with both hands; he’s less surprised by the self-satisfied look on Jim’s face. He still isn’t quite sure where all the taunting is going, and at this point he doesn’t particularly care – he would simply like out of the cell.

“Jim,” Oswald says sharply, digging his hand into the center of Ed’s chest and shoving him back a step.

“Did you ask Lee the same thing?” Ed interjects, his voice going low into that hoarse note he thinks makes the Riddler more intimidating. “After she put you in a box to suffocate?”

Oswald opens his mouth, then closes it, glancing between a sharply grinning Ed and a suddenly stony-faced Jim. How _interesting_ – he had no idea that Dr Thompkins ever tried to kill Jim, though it’s hardly surprising, considering Barbara or Falcone.

“That was the virus,” Jim says, his voice bearing a familiarly irked edge.

Ah. Boring.

“Oh, _Jim_ , what does one devotedly nurture only to ultimately execute?” Ed says, getting close to the bars again, his elbow nudging up alongside Oswald when he crosses his arms to lean in with a sneer for Jim. “A scheme. Do you really believe it only took a few hours for Lee to decide to knock you out, to find the perfect spot, and to put you six feet under? No. That takes _planning_ – that takes days of fantasizing about the many ways she can get revenge before settling on the perfect one.”

“At least she chose and didn’t instead do seven at once,” Oswald interjects with a mutter, reaching up and running the pad of his thumb across the tip of one of his teeth.

Ed makes an irked noise, attention diverting with a sidelong glance. “My plan for you was very straightforward.”

“Please – you were experimenting!” Oswald snipes, ignoring Jim’s deepening scowl to answer the look with a narrow glare. “I only wish I had gotten off so light as simply being buried alive.”

“It wasn’t the same,” Jim interrupts, his voice little more than a furious bark. “If she hadn’t taken the virus, it would’ve stayed a fantasy. I can hardly say the same for you.”

Ed tips his head, his temper visibly fading in the wake of an exaggerated moment of consideration. “Maybe. But s _he_ agreed it was the same… Maybe _you_ should talk to her.”

“After you release us,” Oswald interjects, demanding back attention to the far more important matter at hand.

Jim raises a brow, waving the file folder – a glimpse of _Cob_ \- seen on the label. “Marriage fraud.”

“Firstly, that is not a jail-able offense, Commissioner,” Oswald says, feeling an impulse to wag his cane, for all it had been insistently left with some apathetic desk jockey for safekeeping when Jim dragged him in the building. “And secondly, as I’ve explained, it’s hardly fraud.”

Jim proceeds to actually tut at him. “If it was recent, I could believe that, Oswald – ”

Oswald blinks rapidly, brows drawing up his forehead.

“ – But not back then. You would have gotten a divorce by now, no matter _his_ excuses.”

“Don’t you talk around me,” Ed growls, unexpectedly and oddly offended, his moments-ago satisfaction at putting Jim on the backfoot gone.

Oswald does his best to ignore the tetchy fury while he rolls his eyes, a little exaggerated, to dismiss the notion, meanwhile trying to grasp at any motives at all he _would_ have to put up with Ed’s murders and dalliances – aside for that glaringly obvious one. “It’s complicated. I was hardly so… well-off then, as I am now, and we didn’t exactly draw up a prenuptial agreement.”

Jim stares hard for a beat, then he blinks and suddenly appears to believe the lies, mouth pressing flat with something like sympathy. He exhales hard through his nose, then nods once, “Oh.”

Oswald grabs at the bars that Jim is still staring through, growing irked by the naked pity. “So let us out, or I am going to start yelling.”

“Excuse me?” Jim says, any reflective ideas replaced by that usual unimpressed neutral frown.

Ed takes a conspicuous step back, the pressure of his arm disappearing at the same moment.

“You heard what I said,” Oswald says, raising his voice and satisfied to see more than a few uniforms turn to glance over at the noise. “Seeing as we have _not_ been charged with a crime, _Commissioner_ , I demand you to _explain_ _yourself_ or **_release_** _us_!”

“Jesus Christ, Jim,” Bullock says, his voice emerging plaintively in the echo of Oswald’s demand. “I hate cop killers as much as the next guy, but do you really want the whole GCPD to go deaf?”

Jim keeps still for a beat before he moves, stiffly unlocking the cage with a grumble. “I’m still looking into this.”

“Go ahead,” Oswald says, shoving past and marching for the untidy desk just near the entrance. He glares down at the detective in their ill-fitted suit, daring them to speak while he reaches out to snatch his cane from atop a stack of loose paper. He looks over his shoulder, partly to make sure Ed is following, but mostly to sneer at the idling Jim. “Waste more of your time.”

Ed tugs at sequined lapels to make a show of straightening his jacket, a smug grin across his face while he looks at the door Jim is holding open. “Why, thank you.”

“And him,” Jim adds, leaning back on his heels to send a narrow glare toward Oswald.

Oswald gestures dismissively, turning on his heel and heading toward the exit with an eye roll. He manages not to flinch when a hand flattens just along his spine, and keeps his pace sedate, rather than allowing Ed to push – this brief stay in the cells must have spooked him. Oswald pulls out his phone with a text for the car once they’ve crossed the threshold, standing now in the overhang facing the street. He presumes it’s nearby, ready and waiting, or he’ll be in the market for a driver.

“When did you know?” Ed asks, his voice low, hand summarily dropping to leave a chilled spot in its wake.

“The first Iceberg,” Oswald says, briefly tightening his hand on his cane while pretending concern with his phone. He takes a breath and snaps the phone closed, returning it to his breast pocket. “My estate agent had been through three husbands and a wife. At the time. She thought it a splendid alternative.”

“…To divorce?” Ed asks, seeming truly curious.

Oswald tips his head, glancing over the milling pedestrians in front of the steps. “I did not ask.”

Ed goes quiet then, proceeding to fidget. The reticence feeds into an anxious and heavy silence, briefly broken when the car pulls up, but following like a persistent fog into the car when he slips into the seat beside Oswald, his legs stretching out, then curling back up, then stretching out again while he pulls at the belt.

“Ed,” Oswald snaps, exhaling hard while staring out the window on the other side of the car.

Ed mutters something surely colorful, then falls quiet again while the car pulls out onto the street. He clears his throat, eventually, after a length of conspicuous tapping of fingers against his leg. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

Oswald turns to make eye contact, channeling his temper into being snide. “I did – we had a very long conversation about you being an enormous hypocrite.”

Ed stares back for a long beat, eyes going wide and just slightly panicky, enough almost to provoke guilt that he’s mistaken the meaning of the words, until suddenly his expression turns thunderous and his next words are practically a hiss. “It doesn’t count if I was frozen.”

“I think it does,” Oswald says, turning to the window and making a note to remind the driver that this conversation is just as unmentionable as if it were about Ed’s propensity for bomb-building. “It was a very satisfying discussion.”

“I assume it was mostly shrieking,” Ed says derisively, quickly becoming more sullen than particularly uneasy.

“Excuse me,” Oswald says, hearing his voice raise and caring little about proving Ed’s point. “What else could you expect!? You married me without telling me!”

Ed puffs up defensively, shoulders up against his ears. “It was a – ”

“Not to mention I was _brainwashed_ at the time,” Oswald says, ignoring the dim flickers of memory he has from that time, most purposefully repressed, aside for the brief time with his father. “Or that it didn’t seem to occur to you to annul it when you started _dating_ , not that I’m surprised you have no shame.”

Ed rolls his lips together, visibly biting down on the lower.

“And now,” Oswald hisses, leaning up closer and deepening his scowl. “And _now_ – ”

Ed shrinks even further, arms curled into his chest and eyes fixed sideways in a sulk.

“Despite months of _intimate_ circumstances, Edward,” Oswald says, because that really is the crux of it – it would be one thing to be married in name only as nemeses and too hateful to speak to each other about it, which is where they’d been when he had first found out, but it’s entirely another now since an improbably pleasant conversation about drowning together in a submarine. “You’ve still not mentioned it!”

Ed stays quiet for another length that draws out into minutes, evidently finding the crawl of traffic engrossing through the window. His voice is little more than mumble when he speaks, though it’s better than if he were being haughty. “When would I have mentioned it?”

“Immediately would have been preferred,” Oswald snaps, letting go of his cane to gesture widely and caring little about the resulting flinch as the sharp beak smacks Ed in the knee. “Obviously.”

Ed scoffs low under his breath. “It would’ve been too awkward.”

“Are you _kidding me_?” Oswald says, feeling his disbelief grate angrily out of his throat.

“You said it yourself,” Ed says, lifting his chin now with a look over at Oswald, evidently having scrounged up some spare helping of bogus rationality to defend himself. “You were brainwashed.”

“Fine,” Oswald says, leaning sideways and balling up his hand into a fist on the seat between them, baring his teeth and trying to enjoy the uncertain grimace when Ed peeks down. “How about one of the many times I visited you in Arkham after that!”

Ed inhales a deep breath, lips pressing into a pale line, then abruptly he looks back to the window. “Take me to the Factory.”

Oswald ignores a stab between his ribs, not quite surprised and certainly not going to let Ed just escape. “Do you seriously think you can get out of this conversation?”

“I’m not trying to! I had this entire – ” Ed devolves into a growl, head dropping while his hands ball up in his lap.

Oswald watches Ed glower for a few seconds more, then exhales heavily, picking the cane back up with intention to knock at the privacy screen. “I’ll humor you – don’t make me regret it. Again.”

Ed doesn’t respond, not aloud, but there’s a worrying twitch every now and then to the corner of his mouth.

The Riddle Factory is still the same heap on the outside that it was two months ago, perhaps even more so with a few disparaging scrawls on the side of the brick that look new. Ed shoves open the door at the very instant the car hesitates in the alley, leaving it behind to focus on tapping in some surely precise way at the metal security gate with both hands.

“Park,” Oswald says shortly to the driver, opening his own door at a more sedate pace.

He arrives beside Ed just as the door slides open in two directions, the grate disappearing into the wall above while the metal slats deeper into the jamb merge on either side. He rolls his eyes when the entryway lights up green and gaudy, and watches Ed delicately make his way across to the other side with his feet only on particular tiles that surely mean the difference between life and death.

“You’ve been busy,” Oswald says, stepping forward when Ed gestures with an impatient lift of a hand.

Ed leads though the more-familiar looking halls, then up an irking winding staircase, and finally to his open workshop with boarded windows lining the walls. He directs Oswald past the usual cavalcade of works-in-progress, then pauses oddly while pointing at a gathering of objects at the far wall; clearly, his most pressing venture, if judging by the position of the lamps.

Oswald approaches slowly, glancing over the eclectic spread and quickly finding the green glass, but he doesn’t heed much of it until he catches their _certificates of sanity_ now reframed together in gold. He stares at them for a few seconds, reaching out to straighten the double frame before he looks over his shoulder at Ed. “What is all this?”

“It was going to be a presentation,” Ed says, shoving up his glasses, then quickly rounding the other side of the table with a typical flourishing gesture. “For next Thursday.”

Oswald narrows his eyes for a beat before glancing back down at the eclectic spread; next Thursday, or a week and three days from now.

“But Jim Gordon ruins everything,” Ed snarls, his arms curling up into each other again and hands winding into irked fists.

Oswald tips his head, choosing to take the diplomatic approach; it’s always far easier just to let Ed get things like this out of his system, and whatever it is seems incredibly harmless. “Go on, then, _present_.”

Ed doesn’t move, aside for the sparest twitch of his hands over his arms. “It’s not ready.”

Oswald leans into his cane with a pointed sigh.

“Fine,” Ed snaps, taking a deep breath and shaking out his sleeves, as if he’s actually preparing for a stage. He walks up closer to the other side of the table across Oswald, pointing at the certificates. “Paper.”

Oswald waits a beat for more, then looks up with a raised brow. “Paper?”

 _“Paper_ ,” Ed repeats severely, picking up the certificates and holding out the combined frame. “First anniversary.”

Oswald feels something small and damnably sentimental seize behind his ribs. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Ed says, his hands visibly tightening around the frame just before he hastily sets it back down. He turns with an awkward shuffle to direct Oswald’s attention to a looming pair of cabinets, covered in painted designs and visibly ancient. “Technically, the second is supposed to be china,” he says, reaching out and leaning flat-handed on one of them. “However, these felt more appropriate as a symbol of – of enduring. And they’re from China.”

Oswald walks over slowly and pulls at the door of the one Ed is leaning on, almost wary, but the cabinet seems solid despite its obvious age. He unsteadily gets up on his toes, peering at the inside; he looks at its twin, wondering if it’s just the same.

“I was thinking one for each of us,” Ed says, clearing his throat while taking a step sideways and back to gesture with a sweep of both hands at either cabinet. “I sought them out in particular because the lacquer matched the – our bedroom. At the mansion.”

“Your new disciples helped, I assume,” Oswald says, taking a lofty breath and ignoring the heat prickling briefly over his cheeks.

‘ ** _Our_** _bedroom’._

“They did!” Ed says, plainly thankful for a diversion from the veer toward mawkishness. “It was an exceptional test of their submitted skills – Query managed to set up an entire passthrough system within the truck software and Echo was a perfect act as a stand-in for the buyer. It barely felt like theft.”

Oswald nods slowly, somewhat curious if the women know they’ve got nicknames. He hasn’t quite gotten friendly with them, not yet and perhaps never, but he suspects from what he knows that they would be ecstatic.

Ed leaves the cabinets and sidesteps over to the now infamous decanter set with a held-out hand. “Do you know what vaseline glass is?”

“I know that it is in front of me,” Oswald says, shifting to stand next to Ed while peering down at the set. It’s less impressive than the photo, a sickly sort of color that is particularly unappealing in the natural light of the window.

“It’s made with uranium,” Ed says brightly, kneeling and pulling open a drawer in the desk to extract taking an evident UV light, oddly enough, its purple bulb drawn out across an edge. “Which, as you can see – ” The light blinks on with a tap of a switch and suddenly the glass is _glowing,_ and in a far brighter shade of green than it was even in the photo. “Makes it radioactive.”

Oswald stares for a stunned beat, then allows a huff to escape, reaching out to tap one of the glasses in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say – except, it certainly reminds me of you.”

Ed answers with an unusually restrained grin, still focused on making the glass shift with color under his lamp. “I was going to fill it with absinthe.”

Oswald picks up the glass, admittedly somewhat taken by how it reverts back to something deceptively boring the moment it leaves the blacklight; it reminds him _a lot_ of Ed. “You should’ve liberated a fountain, then, and some sugar cubes.”

Ed tips his head to the side, glancing at Oswald with raised brows. “Does the club not have any of that?”

“Oh, I see.” Oswald leans into Ed’s side just slightly, indulging himself with a narrow look from up close. “ _I’m_ buying that.”

Ed makes his most innocent face, which wasn’t particularly innocent even before he’d taken up as Riddler.

Oswald weathers the attitude with a huff, looking back down to the glasses while he returns the one in his hand to its fellows. He is slowly remembering everything he’s looked forward too over the last couple of months, and quickly shifts his weight entirely onto his good leg while he hooks his cane over Ed’s neck to tug him down to kiss.

Ed hums low in response, leaning down and hand fisting at Oswald’s lapel. His grin can be felt, familiar against Oswald’s lips, and his mouth opens with a quiet gasp, tongue briefly meeting Oswald’s only for him to abruptly jerk away as if he’s been burned.

“Really?” Oswald demands, glaring upward from up close with far less fondness than moments earlier. “After everything, the _teeth_ are going to be a problem?”

Ed rolls his lips together, a noticeable touch of color to his cheeks while he glances over Oswald’s head in that infuriating way while exhaling hard through his nose.

“I simply wanted to _choose_ the next appalling thing that happened to me, Ed,” Oswald says, gesturing toward the eye that Strange had promised would be just like the original, but was, in reality, _half-blind_. “And the inmate in the cell next to me made them look particularly alluring.”

Ed’s frown deepens, his eyes darting down with an altered glint of dissatisfaction bordering on temper.

“Not like that,” Oswald says, rolling his eyes while unhooking his cane from Ed’s shoulder so he can stand better on his own. “And you cannot be both jealous and refuse to kiss me – we’re far past that.”

Ed scoffs lowly, his eyes flitting up and down then once again away, “It’s not refusal, I just – I need time. To acclimate.”

Oswald glances over Ed’s face and realizes the truth of it slowly, catching on the twitches and micro-expressions reminiscent of a man who once so admired the Penguin’s penchant for viciousness that he practically kidnapped him. “Oh, Ed,” he says softly, watching as Ed stiffens and his cheeks flush against a particularly damning expression. “I think I’ve understood this all wrong.”

Ed does a terrible impression of indifference, mouth more pinched than flat. “What?”

“You _like_ them,” Oswald says, grinning slightly and making sure to show a few tips of his sharpened teeth. “A bit too much. Is that right?”

Ed visibly chews on his lower lip, his flush spreading while his head more fully turns away. “I can’t answer that properly up here, since I - it’s not allowed. Up here.” He takes a deep breath, “Maybe downstairs. Or the car.”

Oswald so very much wants to break that particular stupid rule. “I’ve thought about the marks they would leave – ” He lifts his chin, grinning wider now, _“Distinct_ , don’t you think?”

Ed visibly swallows, jaw shifting while he still refuses to turn his head, though his eyes noticeably wander.

Oswald happily relents, chuckling slightly to himself while he looks back down to the table and notices something amiss with a short hum. “You’re missing one.”

Ed frowns and peeks down just barely toward the arrangement of glasses around the decanter.

“Not that,” Oswald says, gesturing dismissively before pointing at the gifts one after another. “Years. It’s been _four_.”

“Oh,” Ed intones, going conspicuously quiet before he barks out nervous laughter that goes badly hidden by a cough. “Not until next week.”

Oswald exhales a low, drawn-out hum. “And is Jim going to be coming after you for that, as well?”

Ed quickly shakes his head, still not looking at Oswald, though now the avoidance seems to be motivated by a far different cause than lust. “Completely legal.”


	2. Chapter 2

Oswald goes through the next week somewhat warily, waiting for a call or a visit from the GCPD, but the ten days leading up to whatever this _surprise_ is are unexpectedly silent. He sees Ed, of course, flitting in and out of the mansion or the Lounge with ideas and intimacies, yet he stays mum and doesn’t offer so much as a riddle for a hint.

It’s absolutely maddening. Oswald had been depending on Ed being too much of a braggart to really have to suffer a surprise, after the lion’s share of it was revealed, yet now here Oswald is on a late Thursday morning utterly unaware of what he might encounter at any next turn. He opens doors carefully while making his way downstairs in the mansion, peering both ways, but Ed merely acts as if it is just another day, though he does make eggs-in-a-hole, which he’s never done but can’t quite be considered _that_ out of the ordinary.

He almost wants to accuse Ed of forgetting, but it feels like that might make him lose some game, so he plays along and eats his breakfast while watching Ed carefully extract his own in parts. It gives him time to admire the gentle curve of red marks dotting over Ed’s throat.

“I would prefer it didn’t…” Ed takes a breath, patently miffed by something on the plate, though what it could be is certainly all in his head. “ _Seep_.”

Oswald hums shortly, looking down at his own plate and purposefully cutting through the middle so that the yolk erupts over the bread.

Ed makes a ridiculous gagging noise, turning his shoulder slightly as if to shield against the sight.

“You were literally the one at the stove,” Oswald taunts lightly, scooping bread and egg together in preparation to shove it all into his mouth.

“The bread would have burned, _Oswald_ ,” Ed mutters, inhaling a steady breath while cutting at another corner with careful precision to avoid any chance of too-runny yolk. He’s clearly about forty-five seconds from handing the plate over in entirety - Oswald will be patient.

A phone buzzes on the table, as if by providence, and Ed drops his fork to snatch it up. He peers at the face for a beat before he’s leaping out of the chair, shoving the plate down the island while going for the door with a dismissive gesture.

Oswald takes the leftovers with a narrow glance backward, watching Ed slip out of the door. A small part of him is reflexively suspicious, wary of what Ed could be up to behind his back, while a far larger part of him is _suspicious_ , because he knows it must have to do with today and he has no idea what it is, and that irks him. He tucks in the rest of Ed’s toast, which is mostly just the very middle, and pretends apathy when Ed saunters back into the kitchen.

“So,” Ed says, visibly smug, if bearing an odd little note of anxiety at the gentle furrow of his brow. “When will you be at the Lounge?”

Oswald makes a show of thinking, glancing at the clock over near the window. “After I get dressed.”

Ed frowns immediately, mouth settling flat.

“I should be there by two,” Oswald amends, stacking their plates one atop the other. It’s a generous allowance of time, nearly three hours, but if Ed is going to do something grand, then Oswald may as well dress the part. “And _why_?”

Ed is quiet for a few seconds, then leans back on his heels with a brusque inhale. “You know why.”

“I thought maybe you’d forgotten,” Oswald says, feeling more comfortable mentioning it now he’s not the first. He turns his head to better catch Ed’s eyes, hardening his expression with a pursing of his mouth. “Is it stolen, too?”

“I already said no,” Ed says, briefly pressing an appeasing not-quite kiss to the edge of Oswald’s temple, humming low, then turning away on his heel.

“Because I try very hard to keep that club legitimate,” Oswald says, turning around in his chair and making a point to gesture aggressively at Ed’s indifference.

“Appear legitimate,” Ed corrects snappily, just before he disappears again through the doorway with nary another hint given.

Bastard.

Oswald drops the dishes into the sink with a clatter, consequently startling Edward into barking at the surprise. He looks over at him, now on edge in his little bed, and walks over to bend down and soothe the wrinkles on his forehead. “Do you know what it is?”

Edward stares back for a few beats, then settles with a snuffle back into the cushion.

Oswald straightens back up with a deep inhale, narrowing his eyes at the view across the grounds. “Martín said he didn’t know either.”

It could have been a lie. Martín does well responding promptly with morse code when on the phone, but the fact the person on the other end doesn’t talk back seems to inspire Ed into rambling about everything. On one call, after they retook the mansion, Oswald had overheard him telling a surely bored to tears Martín exactly how he was reorganizing the library to be more efficient.

Oswald takes out his phone while he walks away from the kitchen and toward the stairs, flipping it open and closed; he could press for an answer, but then Martín _would_ call Ed. He’s let them get far too close.

* * *

Oswald exits the car with a glance up and down the façade of the Lounge’s building, seeing little amiss and somewhat surprised – he had expected flashing colors, perhaps, or at the very least something large and green. He widens the door to let Edward jump from the car, then makes his way to the back doors, pausing slightly in the elevator at the sight of a card over the emblem for the Iceberg Lounge.

He pulls the card from where it’s wedged, then flips it over.

‘ _I am soft and velvet, beautiful and delicate, but make the wrong choice and I could be deadly, should you ingest me.’_

Oswald flips the card in his hand a few times, then looks down to Edward with a thoughtful hum. “I suspect this doubles as a warning for you, so _don’t_ eat anything.”

Edward snuffles at the attention, dancing slightly when Oswald leans down to let him sniff the card.

The elevator soon comes to a stop, doors opening to the heavy black curtains and pale lights that make up his private entrance to the club. He uses his cane to shove aside the curtain, then opens the door, and steps in to peer from wall to wall, seeing that the lounge has bloomed green and purple from table to bar, countless flowers clearly organized by some specific method that Oswald can’t quite understand but can see makes the exhibition beautiful. A few of the bouquets are interspersed with fruits, kiwi and dragonfruit here, honeydew and fig there, and more others he doesn’t recognize on sight, but surely fit the theme. It strikes the card as a bit of a mixed message, unless that bit really was simply for Edward, which is a blessing, as well as something of a surprise.

“Uh-uh,” Oswald scolds, looking down to see Edward trying to lean up and sniff at a garland of purple flowers decorating a barstool. “What did I say?”

Edward sullenly snuffles, then gives up, trotting away from the stool and toward the stairs up into the private rooms. It’s probably just as dangerous up there as down here, but Ed is likely waiting in the office and he doesn’t seem to be _actively_ trying to kill Edward.

“Mister Penguin,” Raven greets, rushing to his side with her hands already toying with each other from nerves between them. “He was – I couldn’t stop him.”

Oswald doubts that _any_ of his people actually tried, but how nice of Raven to make the effort to lie to his face.

“He had two trucks deliver all this and when we got close he called Lark an idiot and said he had…” Raven pauses, glancing down with a furrowed brow and tight roll of her lips before looking back up with an angry sigh. “I haven’t managed to solve the riddle yet, sir, but I’m sure it was very – feet for hands!”

Oswald is a little reluctantly curious as to what the riddle itself _was_ , but directs his attention further down the bar, over the petals and sliced fruit trailing toward the stairs and up to his office. “Am I correct that more of it’s up there, than down here?”

Raven sounds so defeated. “I believe so, sir.”

“Have a few of the others come in early,” Oswald says, leaning back on his good leg and gesturing with the cane around the lounge. “Make them clean all this up, _delicately_ , and take it back to the mansion. But leave that wreath of lilies at the piano.”

“Yes, Mister Penguin,” Raven says, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she understands that she won’t have to serve guests the rest of the night over any of the flowers. She curtsies just slightly, some odd leftover from working as Barbara’s whipping-girl, and skitters off toward the phone with a determined set to her mouth.

Oswald picks up the drink from the bar, taking a wary sip and finding it to be a gimlet. He hums shortly and makes his way further down the room, taking in the path of cleverly braided stems and puzzled-together petals in varying shades of purple or green, many of them daylilies or orchids. It’s a beautiful presentation, but it doesn’t quite follow with the aesthetic of the Iceberg.

“May I ask, sir,” Raven says, appearing once again at Oswald’s side just before he reaches the end of the bar, her face bearing a new anxiety, “What the occasion is?”

Oswald feels something stutter nervously at his center and shoves it away – it is the _truth,_ and he is going to tell it. “Our anniversary.”

“Ah,” Raven intones, nodding politely before her expression abruptly seizes with alarm. She stares somewhere in the middle distance a beat before her eyes make hesitant contact with Oswald’s and her mouth sets in a fretting smile. “Do you want something prepared, sir?”

“I think Ed has handled that splendidly, but your consideration is appreciated,” Oswald says, returning the smile briefly before gesturing for her to return to the phone that is clutched in her hand. “Concern yourself with cleaning up down here.”

“Of course, sir,” Raven says, taking a pair of steps back and dropping in another absurd curtsy. She must be truly unsettled by Ed around wrecking the generally monotonous Thursday morning; usually, she makes an _attempt_ to stifle her odder habits.

Oswald picks up a pair of orchids bound by ribbon, spinning them between his fingers. He wonders if the entire presentation was originally supposed to happen at the Lounge, all these flowers leading Oswald up to see Ed’s array of gifts rather than simply himself. It’s probably better this way – a few perishable bouquets here or there won’t be questioned at first glance, and even if it _is_ all stolen, it shouldn’t be noticed until it’s all rotten or consumed.

He sets the orchids on the top of the stairs, looking up at the way petals have been made to surround every light like marginally flammable chandeliers. He can’t quite believe this was managed in only a few hours, but then he remembers that it was done by a determined Riddler.

Oswald makes his way further down the hall to find Edward lying down outside the door to his office, visibly sulking, and he huffs slightly while reaching out to let him in and walking behind to follow, only to pause halfway in the door to stare at his desk. The display downstairs was a lot, but it was spread out in small doses – this is _massive_ , a series of huge bouquets that are so high as to completely block the sight of the window behind them.

He looks around the rest of the office, annoyed that Ed is absent, and exhales heavily while peeking back through the door into the hall. He rolls his eyes and leaves the door open a few inches, realizing that Ed must be waiting to spring for some reason, and approaches the flowers while wondering what else it is he’s meant to find if not simply the bouquets. He stares for a few seconds, then reaches out to a smaller bouquet at the center, conspicuously separate from the rest, and turns it in his hands while peering at the elaborate way the ribbon is wrapped around the stems. His eyes go wide when something heavy comes loose, previously hidden in the loops of the black ribbon, to slide down along the largest loop of the bow, then inhales sharply when another falls down the other side. He can’t quite believe his eyes, staring stunned at the _rings_ now gently clinking together – they’ve been cast in some dark brushed metal, broken by a narrow slip of color at the center that shifts between purple and green with every movement.

He looks up and sees that a card was hiding behind the bouquet, made from stiff black cardstock and bearing letters written in an ink that changes color like the rings when he picks it up in an unsteady hand. He worries slightly for the flowers in his other, knowing he is crushing their stems between the rings.

_I can be golden or wooden, simple or sparkling; I unite as a band, then just as soundly sever as a knell. What am I?_

Oswald laughs breathlessly, dropping the card to the table and lifting the flowers back up to tug the rings from their ribbon bonds. He cradles both in his palms, studying them closer and seeing that one bears a bright shimmering purple inside the band, while the other green. He doesn’t know why Ed even bothered with anything else when he had these to give; Oswald certainly plans to ask, and briefly peeks over his shoulder while wondering why exactly Ed hasn’t yet burst in to crow with his usual dynamism.

“I don’t see a party,” a voice says, low and taunting, but certainly not Ed.

Oswald turns the rings around in his palm for a beat longer before slipping the smaller, violaceous one on with a deep inhale and tucking the other up his sleeve. “You’re not looking hard enough.”

“I definitely saw that Nygma’s turned this place into a green house, least I’m to assume it was him,” Jim says, brazenly continuing to enter the office without invitation. “And fruit? Almost seems like he’s trying to make up for something.”

Oswald pointedly glances backward at the display, then offers a shrug. “He has a flair for the dramatic.”

Jim hums low, leaning in with a thoughtful moue while reaching out to tap at the petal of a lily. “Didn’t used to.”

“He certainly did,” Oswald disagrees, remembering when Ed had so proudly revealed Mr Leonard with a wide grin and a jazzy gesture barely two days into their acquaintanceship. “You simply didn’t notice.”

Jim eyes the flowers for a beat longer, then glances to Oswald with a curious glint to his eyes. “Did you send him roses after Galavan?”

Oswald stares for a beat, then slowly raises an eyebrow – does Jim really remember that? _He_ had forgotten about it, until now, which he’s going to blame completely on a situation caused by the man in front of him.

“It was just – ” Jim shrugs, mouth pursing together while he rocks slightly on his feet. “He could have used anything, but he had roses.”

“Used?” Oswald repeats, curious despite himself and realizing he’s never actually asked what Ed was doing during that time, aside for, of course, all that plotting against Jim that subsequently led to them being _married_.

“To test with,” Jim shifts his expression just slightly, brows quirking with the usual distaste that is distinctly for Ed. “Froze one of them solid and then insulted our intelligence.”

Oswald taps his fingers over the ring nestled just inside his cuff. “Sounds like him.”

Jim notices the movement, his entire head dropping for a lengthy beat before he looks back up. “How long have you had that?”

Oswald smirks slightly, lifting his hand to show off the ring in the usual way. “Jealous, James?”

Jim badly restrains a jeer. “Less flashy than I expected, is all.”

Oswald rolls his eyes and lifts his other hand, tugging off the ring to show the glimmering inside.

“Ah,” Jim intones, mouth quirking slightly and plainly unsurprised.

“And about that party – it’s more of a _private_ get-together,” Oswald says, leaning into his desk with his shoulder out just slightly, as if he’s really any amount reluctant to tell Jim to get out. “I doubt Ed or the Doc would appreciate very much if I invited you.”

Jim makes the expected expression, his entire face scrunching up and making him look like a child. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Well?” Oswald says, when Jim doesn’t move so much as an inch. “Aren’t you going to leave? Or are you really here to arrest me for _fraud_.”

Jim has the gall to actually look thoughtful, peering again back and forth at the flowers, then toward the door. “Maybe it’s real now, but it wasn’t then.”

Oswald simply raises an eyebrow and smirks, silently daring Jim to prove it. The case would be flimsy, at best, considering how close Ed and he are now and were then, their relationship being secret easily excused by concern for Oswald’s political career. The trouble in between is inconsequential when it comes to this supposed crime.

“He tried to kill you, Oswald,” Jim says, using his most reasonable detective tone.

Oswald nearly rolls his eyes; how nice of Jim to care about that after literal years. “Everyone tries,” he counters, gesturing between them with some significance. “I’m not a nice person.”

Jim presses his lips together tight, then tilts his head with acknowledgement. “What did you even do to him?”

“Not that it’s _any_ of _your_ business,” Oswald prefaces, leaning back on the desk and stretching his leg out slightly before crossing it against the other, stabler one at the ankle. “But I betrayed his trust… to a considerable and selfish degree.”

Jim is silent for a beat, then raises his brows in exaggerated astonishment.

“I can admit it,” Oswald snaps, glaring hard and feeling his mouth fold into a sneer. “I’m surprised _your_ spouse didn’t say anything.”

Jim drops the smugness and looks immediately uncomfortable, looking back toward the door yet again; his voice when he next speaks is quiet, almost wary. “She’s weird about him; weird about that… whole time.”

Oswald hums pointedly, idly spinning the ring on his finger. “You still owe me that life debt.”

“I think we’re even,” Jim disagrees, glancing up and down Oswald with a raised eyebrow.

Oswald scoffs, wondering if Jim really thinks that’s true. He reaches out, taking up a lily and spinning it between his fingers. “I think you could learn from him.”

Jim blinks slowly, “Excuse me?”

“Did you do anything for _your_ anniversary?”

“We had dinner,” Jim answers flatly, lifting his chin and crossing his arms, prematurely offended.

“Dinner? How pedestrian,” Oswald smirks, gesturing with the flower at the tributes to his partnership all around him. “No grand gestures, or elaborate trips about the town?”

Jim shakes his head, though his condescending smirk seems somewhat unsure. “Lee’s not really into that.”

“She had to have been a little,” Oswald says, because even if that whole _thing_ had so clearly all been a ploy to keep Ed’s attention and talents, she hadn’t seemed to hate the consequences that entailed.

“She and Barbara did something,” Jim admits after a tense moment, already chewing at the inside of his cheek in visible regret for responding to the jibe “I think it involved burlesque.”

“Oh?” Oswald says, leaning forward at the waist with an amused huff. “Well, might want to watch that.”

Jim exhales a sigh like he’s heard that before – most likely from one of the two. He reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, finally taking a step backward toward the door. “Happy Anniversary, Oswald. Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Thank you,” Oswald says, smirking stiffly for the time it takes Jim to wander far too slowly out through the door. He’ll surely linger at the bar looking for the decanters, and Raven should probably be warned, but the phone is tragically hidden in a forest of stems.

It can’t be ten seconds later that Ed bursts in, throwing open the door with a dramatic breath.

“You liar,” Oswald says, wagging his finger and feeling stupidly delighted to see this man who he last saw only hours earlier. “Something is illegal about this.”

Ed gestures smally with pinched fingers, walking in closer with an awkward grin. “Not technically, picking flowers isn’t illegal.”

Oswald knows that it definitely is in a few cases, and certainly any in this quantity, but his earlier thought keeps him from attempting to admonish – he’s not really in the mood for it, either, still so pleased by the spare weight around his finger. “As long as it wasn’t from Ivy.”

“God no,” Ed says, leaning in closer and grabbing one of the green fruits to, oddly, smell it with a lengthy inhale. “Does she grow food?”

“I have no idea,” Oswald says, reaching out to take back the fruit, then shaking it just slightly in Ed’s face. “What is this?”

“A guava,” Ed says, grinning, his eyes lighting up in some odd bout of humor. “Aren’t they ugly?”

“More so than I expected,” Oswald admits, swallowing hard and chucking the stupid guava back onto his desk. He reaches out to grab Ed’s hand, ignoring the thud beneath his ribs while he retrieves the ring from the inside of his cuff with a pair of fingers. “Anyway. Why weren’t you here when I got in?”

“I was going to… to _surprise_ you, but Gordon beat me to it,” Ed says, his voice rising just slightly in pitch while his eyes are glued on Oswald’s hands; it’s a little comforting that his fingers are shaking just slightly, too, while they both pretend this is nothing; that every day Oswald slides this dark ring over Ed’s finger. “I – I didn’t want to get arrested today. Obviously. I should have… known he was just here to mess with you.”

Oswald drags a dull nail along the ring, catching at the narrow line of green. “So you were listening in?”

Ed hums in shameless admittance. “You know, I kept the rest.”

Oswald glances up with a raised brow, reluctantly dropping Ed’s hand and putting both of his on the desk while he reclines back on the edge.

“Of the roses. I froze them.” Ed closes the space between them with a sudden lean hard into Oswald, dramatically lamenting with a sigh. “Until they raided my loft.”

Oswald fails not to imagine a uniform throwing them out while mocking Ed, and tuts, “Pigs.”

“I never said thank you,” Ed says, catching Oswald’s eye with a turn of his head.

“You’ve more than done that with all this,” Oswald says, lifting his hands to gesture at the office, then the lounge below their feet. “With everything. Especially those cabinets– finally, I don’t have to look at all those bowler hats.”

Ed barely smirks, suddenly chewing on his lip; he drops his head in the next moment, brows quirked and eyes searching deep. “Do you like the ring?” He asks, his voice suddenly so low he may as well be speaking in a whisper. “I heard Gordon – ”

“I love it,” Oswald interrupts firmly, lowering his voice just the same – keeping it between them. He would have loved anything Ed had given him, but he doubts Ed would take it as the compliment it is, if he said as much.

“I know the design is a bit… simple,” Ed pauses, rolling his lips together, then suddenly he grabs Oswald’s hand and pulls it up between them, as if he’s studying the ring for himself. “But I thought it would suit you. And me.”

“I believe it will,” Oswald says, hoping his expression doesn’t look as tremulous as it feels. “The sort of accessory that goes with everything.”

“And unlikely to be stolen if we’re ever incapacitated,” Ed says, brighter, turning his own hand so that their rings are pressed against each other. “No fence would look at them twice.”

Oswald hums absent agreement, preoccupied by the dark bands and shimmers of color blending across their joined fingers. He swallows hard, muting a mildly hysterical giggle, and reluctantly pulls from Ed’s grip to instead curl the hand firmly around his cheek while looking up with a soft smile. “Thank you, Edward.”

Ed grins back, eyes curling at the corners for a solid beat, then his expression shifts just slightly, abruptly more expectant. “This must make up for it.”

“No,” Oswald disagrees, leaning up to press his lips hard against Ed’s exaggerated pout. “Ask again in four years.”

“But,” Ed says, voice dropping into a sullen mumble. He chases when Oswald moves, leaning down so the length of his nose frames across Oswald’s turned cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, as well,” Oswald answers lowly, lifting his jaw against a press of lips and feeling a following petulant nip at the ridge. He lifts his hand to squeeze at Ed’s side, sighing shallow, “Do try not to manipulate me with it.”

“I’m not,” Ed denies, the insistent press of his body warm and his tone an amused breath. His hand soon cradles the other side of Oswald’s jaw, holding him firm to press lips higher up his cheek. “I wish you hadn’t gotten rid of the couch.”

”I wish you hadn’t killed someone on it,” Oswald counters, but it’s only somewhat the truth – though he loved the look of it at first, he had started to regret the lavender suede.

“You helped,” Ed mutters, his breath a soft puff against Oswald’s ear.

Oswald tilts his head into the next kiss, shifting his hand until his palm is flat against Ed’s stomach to pop the button of his jacket, then down further to his waistband. He taps his thumb at the curve of the belt buckle, then slips it in between the leather to tug it out of the loop. “Do you really need the couch?”

Ed hums something pleased and certainly a denial, his next breath heavy against Oswald’s cheek.

“Although, maybe your _factory policy_ should be kept to here, as well,” Oswald says, dropping his hand from the belt to the swell quickly rising in pressed slacks. He can barely keep a straight face while he strokes up and down with his knuckles, though he thinks his tone stays aptly thoughtful. “It is the place _I_ work.”

“Oswald,” Ed whines, slumping heavier onto Oswald, hand pulling from his neck to land with a thunk onto the desk behind him.

“Oh, but,” Oswald taunts, shifting his hand and teasing his nail against the zipper under his thumb, squeezing an open palm around Ed’s trapped cock. “I just love watching you fall apart. What to do…”

Ed casts his vote with a cant of his hips upward and an insistent grab at Oswald’s elbow to keep him in place.

Oswald smirks to himself while using his other hand to gently shove off Ed’s jacket from his shoulders, letting it pile onto the floor in a soft fwump. He pulls at the tie next, tugging at the tight button at the collar, and leans up to taste the skin underneath before biting down with sharp teeth.

“Oswa –” Ed gasps, hips jerking upward while his hands clutch at Oswald’s neck and arm, fingers digging sharply into Oswald’s flesh.

Oswald licks at the red marks before leaving them behind, concentrating on looking down while he undoes Ed’s trousers, quickly finding that the jutting curve of Ed’s rosy cock is unconstrained by any usual garish briefs. He chuckles lowly, licking wetly at his palm, “Someone was confident.”

“You’re a…” Ed hums unevenly, rocking forward when Oswald closes the hand around his cock. He drops his head against Oswald’s shoulder while he continues his thought with a mumble, “…A sentimentalist.”

Oswald absently presses a kiss through Ed’s open collar, smearing beading precum with his thumb down Ed’s cock and teasing around the ridge while starting to tug at a lazy pace. “And I’m in good company, aren’t I?”

Ed answers with a hasty nod into Oswald’s shoulder, mouth opening with an exhale that turns into little, eager pants into the space between Oswald’s shirt collar and his ear. His hands drop to the desk and he’s got Oswald bracketed, thrusting up into the grip around his cock while kindly not putting too much of his weight on Oswald himself.

“Oswald,” he pleads, nuzzling until eager lips meet Oswald’s with a groan into his open mouth, sharing an eager, desperate breath. He makes a whispering little whimper in the next beat, mouth sliding to the side with a gasp, pressing himself closer and elbows squeezing in at Oswald’s sides.

Oswald uses his free hand to find Ed’s on the desk, stroking from flexing tendons to clawing fingertips while pressing his lips to the sheen of sweat at the edge of a sharp jaw. “Come, Eddie, I know you’re close.”

Ed breathes hard for another few seconds then curls inward with a shudder, exhaling a choked moan while he spills into Oswald’s hand; his fingers skid on the desk in the next beat, grasping desperately until they catch on Oswald’s own. He restarts mumbling appreciations into Oswald’s skin seconds later, breathlessly, and brings up an unsteady hand to squeeze at his nape.

Oswald answers with his own kiss to Ed’s cheek just before he reluctantly leans back to make room, feeling a chill slip into the space between them while retrieving his pocket square with a mild grimace. He wipes his hands slow, nodding against continuing mutters into his neck, and enjoys the small whine when he does the kindness of cleaning up Ed’s stomach and softening cock. He folds the cloth back up and carefully tucks it in one of Ed’s pockets, before forcing him up with a gentle push at his middle to better button him back up, tugging playfully at the leather belt before sliding that back into place just the same.

“I know that was a thank you, but…” Ed shifts slightly forward, thigh pressing flat against the hardness in Oswald’s own trousers.

“Later,” Oswald says, briefly closing his eyes, suppressing his own arousal with a slow exhale in an act of careful, practiced repression. He reaches up as he reopens his eyes, straightening the knot of Ed’s tie back into its place over his throat. “I’m having the lot downstairs being taken back to the mansion – I know you worked _very_ hard, but patrons will certainly steal a few or even destroy them, which I refuse to let happen. If you’d like an opinion on where they go at home, I’d say so now.”

“Morons,” Ed mutters, taking a step back and inadvertently into afternoon sunshine, unawares of how the light emphasizes his persistent flush when he kneels for his jacket.

Oswald feels his mouth twitch with a smirk, indulging himself for a spare few seconds of staring before he moves down the desk and to the other side. He reaches out to pick up a larger bouquet from the back, unsure where he might put it and the rest – a window, perhaps – only to hear a subdued yelp and hastily peek back over his shoulder.

Ed looks aghast, holding his jacket to his chest like a startled biddy. “The _d_ _og_ is still here.”

Oswald looks over to Edward sleeping soundly in his bed on the far side of the office, behind a coffee table and tucked into the corner near a frosted window, then rolls his eyes back to Ed. “He’s far too short to see from there, if that makes you feel better.”

Ed exhales a peevish breath while slipping his jacket on in stiff gesture. “You’d know.”

Oswald slowly sets down the bouquet in hand and reaches out to pick up the forgotten guava from where it has rolled between blooms. He stares down at it, turning it in his palm, then look up and throws it right at that oversized forehead.

Ed’s chuckle echoes as he escapes through the door.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a difficult time resisting a pun.
> 
> I can be found on the twitters[ @ ezlebe](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en) ~


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